(My husband and I are in line to order behind this older redneck-type man with a sour attitude. For the most part, I’m paying no attention, because I’m sharing work-related conversation with hubby, though it’s easy to see that the conversation is tense. Suddenly, the older guy explodes on the young, Hispanic cashier.)
Customer: “D*** it! I just want to order a d*** burger. Is that so f***ing hard to do?”
Cashier: “Sir, I just want to know if you want curly fries or regular fries.”
Customer: “I don’t speak wetback, boy! You need to learn American.”
Cashier: *visibly upset now* “I asked if you want curly fries or regular fries.”
Customer: “Can’t understand a f***ing thing. Need to fire all of your a**es and hire some d*** Americans.”
Me: “Wait, what seems to be the problem here?”
Customer: “I can’t understand the d*** wetback behind the counter. He’s got a f***ing thick accent.”
(This is a complete lie; the kid has no accent at all. We’ve understood every word that he has said clearly.)
Me: “Well, maybe I can help. I know a little Spanish.” *I turn to the cashier, and in perfect English, ask:* “What was the order number and what comes with it?”
Cashier: “He ordered a number eight. It comes with mayo, mustard, and ketchup. I wanted to know if he wanted curly fries or regular with it.”
Me: *turns to the older customer and as loud and slow as I can* “HE WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU WANT CURLY FRIES OR REGULAR FRIES!”
Customer: “What the f***?! Why are you f***ing yelling at me?!”
Me: “Oh, I thought you were deaf. So, is it a stupidity problem, then? Or just racism?”
(He got red in the face and stormed out, still muttering about how Mexicans were taking over Texas. The cashier and his fellow workers were laughing the whole way. I got a free small shake out of it, but I’d have done it with or without the shake.)
